


Henry

by lyricalsoul



Series: Mycroft's In Love [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Embarrassed!Lestrade, Fluff, M/M, Tape measure fetish, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:26:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry the Tailor (From Bespoke) gets a visitor. Things go awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Henry

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing that popped into my head the other day as a filler in the series. Thanks to all who leave kudos, and to those who comment. It makes my world go 'round.

 

 

I am in the middle of cutting fabric when the door opens. I set my scissors aside, take my glasses off, and look up. The man who enters is not one of my regulars. A right handsome man with silver hair, and a tan that reminds me of summers spent in Saint Tropez, is standing there looking like he’d rather be at the dentist. He’s wearing an unfortunate off the rack suit, coupled with a horrid checked shirt that makes me shudder. “Are you my twelve?” I ask, hoping that he is because I can think of at least five colours he’d look absolutely dashing in.

“I’m sorry, your what?”

“My twelve o’clock appointment?”

“Oh. No.” He swallows so hard I can see it. “I, ah, I’m looking for Henry.”

“I am Henry.” I bow slightly, amused by his nervousness. “I am by appointment only, but you obviously have an emergency and need a new suit straight away. I recently cut a navy chalkstripe for a chap about your size, but he won’t be needing it now that he’s locked up for fraud. I can have it ready for you in a week’s time, though it will cost-“

“I’m not here for a suit.”

“Oh, what a pity, because I can do wonders for your colouring and physique. That… unfortunate ensemble you’re wearing now is a crime against nature and fashion, not showing off your lovely waist and broad shoulders. And that shirt… just awful. Would you like to replace it? I have a few things in back I can have ready in an hour…”

He looks down at his shirt with a frown. “My shirt is fine. It’s just… well, I have a problem, and need you to fix it for me.” He reaches into the shopping bag he’s holding. 

“Oh!” I hold my hands up in surrender. “We do not have cash here, if that’s what you’re after. You can have my scissors, which cost a pretty penny, and fabric. I have some Italian leather-”

“Oh, right, I’m going to rob you in broad daylight, on Savile Row? I can’t look that rough, for christ’s sake. Look… I’m going to reach into my pocket and get my warrant card.” He sighs, reaches into his suit pocket, and plus out a billfold. “Take a look.”

I put my eyeglasses back on and look. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Ah, I’ve seen you before on telly. You are much more handsome in person, but that is a dreadful shirt.”

“So you’ve said,” he says, his tone dry. He takes a bundle from the bag, and holds it out to me. “I was told that you could repair these.”

I take the bundle, and unroll it. Shirts. “Hm…not yours, no? Oh, how dreadful… what happened to the buttons?”

“There was, ah… an accident. I found three of them, but the rest…” He blushes, looks down at the floor, then back up at me. “Can you fix them?”

“Hmm…” The tag inside bears my name and the distinguishing mark that belongs to… Mycroft Holmes. My best and oldest customer. “Why do you have Mr. Holmes’ shirts? Has…something untoward happened to him? Oh, no… poor chap. Such a nice man, so loyal and kind… c'est une tragédie…”

“Henry, nothing has happened to Mr. Holmes. I just want his shirts mended.”

“But you said there was an accident. I can’t imagine why a Scotland Yard detective would have his shirts unless…” I clutch at my chest. “Has a crime been committed? Is this… evidence? He seemed like such a nice man, always polite and patient, but I suppose those are always the ones you have to watch. Those eyes of his-“

“For god’s sake, you can’t be serious.” He sounds more than a little annoyed at this point, but truth is truth. “We are talking about the same man, right?”

“I have never known Mr. Holmes to be anything other than a nice gentleman, who looks smashing in a waistcoat.” To my surprise, he acknowledges this with a slight dip of his head. I clear my throat, and lean in closer. “I do not wish to carry tales, but now that we are talking, just you and I, well, all I’m going to say is that still waters run deep.”

“Still waters? Are you serious? Henry, Mr. Holmes is not a criminal, and these shirts are not evidence. Seeing as they’re not in an evidence bag, and I just asked you to fix them. Can you stop jumping to conclusions and take a look?”

“Yes, sorry.” I shake out the eggshell shirt and look it over. One mother of pearl button left, torn pocket, and a rip in the shoulder that looks as though someone went at it with a blunt knife. Or ... “Dear me. This is dreadful. Mr. Holmes would not treat his shirts in such a fashion. Tell me, Detective Inspector Lestrade, what are you playing at here? Are you a crooked officer, trying to frame him?”

“I told him this would be a disaster,” he mutters, looking at the ceiling, “but does he listen? No, he doesn’t.” He clears his throat, and gives me a pointed look. “Henry, this is not a crime drama. If I were framing him, I wouldn’t be trying to have the shirts repaired. I assure you that Mr. Holmes is a personal friend. I… accidently ruined his favourite shirts, and told him that I would see to the mending.”

“Is that so?” I take off my glasses and glare at him. “There is no way Mycroft Holmes would let his shirts be in such a state of disrepair. Missing buttons, pockets ripped, tears, questionable stains…  I shall phone him and demand that he explain.”

“No need, Henry.” Mr. Holmes himself strolls in, casual as the devil, and looks at the detective with a smirk. “Though I am extremely grateful for your attentiveness to this matter, he is telling the truth. As farfetched as it may sound.”

The Detective Inspector looks relieved, annoyed, and embarrassed. “You could have stayed in the car. I was getting there.”

“Hardly. In the past three minutes, you have been mistaken for a robber, and crooked policeman, and I have been killed, framed, and under suspicion. Lord knows what would have happened had Henry picked up the phone.”

“Probably would have been arrested,” he groans. “By someone in my own unit. As a murderer. The Shirt Murderer, killing chaps on Savile Row, and-“

“Gregory, please,” Mr. Holmes cuts in. “Now is not the time.”

I look from one man to the other, surprised at the teasing I hear in Mr. Holmes’ voice. I have never heard him speak to anyone with such affection, and I have been his tailor for upwards of twenty years. Then it dawns on me… this must be the person to whom he was speaking when he came in for a fitting a few weeks ago. It was odd that he would be so fidgety and distracted while being fitted, and needing to sit and have water. But despite that, he was as happy and as carefree as I have ever seen him.  I should have realized that the difference that I saw in him wasn’t due to a diet or good fortune; it was this good looking man in an awful shirt. “Oh… ” I want to say more, but find that I can’t.

With a smile, and a hint of a blush, Mr. Holmes says, “Yes, Henry, Detective Inspector Lestrade is my…” He turns to the detective and lifts an eyebrow. “We didn’t discuss this. What shall I say?”

“You know what I’d call it – especially here - but you hate the term,” he says with an absolutely smug, but endearing smile. “Let’s just go with gentleman friend. Or chap. How about plus one? Main squeeze?”

“Detective Inspector, please." He rolls his eyes as he says this, but I can see the affection clearly written on his face. “My person of significance, so to speak.”

I hold out a hand, which Mr. Lestrade shakes firmly. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, Detective Inspector. I do watch a bit too much telly.”

“It’s fine,” he says gruffly. He looks around the store. “You do nice work.”

“Yes, I do. And please, let me assure you that there is no need to be embarrassed at the state of Mr. Holmes’ shirts. I have seen worse.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Told you,” he says to Mr. Holmes, who remains silent.

“I will make a deal with you, Mr. Lestrade. Because you remind me so much of my own... person of significance, I will repair the shirts at a bargain, if you will consent to a fitting. Please.”

Mr. Lestrade gives Mr. Holmes a suspicious look. “I appreciate the offer, but really, I spend my days running around, falling in the Thames. Wouldn’t want to ruin an expensive shirt with all that.”

“There are other, less… fine options.” I pull the tape measure from my neck and hold it up to his chest, mentally noting the size. I move to his arm, lifting it, and holding the tape at his shoulder.

He shivers and steps back quickly. “Perhaps later,” he says with a faint blush.

 “Yes, yes,” I say, a bit confused at his reaction. “If you like patterns, I do have some stripes that would make you look even more dashing than you are. You have seen Mr. Holmes in the wheat with tan pin?”

“I… maybe.” He looks at Mr. Holmes. “Wheat?”

“Light brown,” Mr. Holmes supplies helpfully, clearing his throat to cover what sounds to me like a chuckle.

“Correct,” I say. “That shirt makes the ginger hair shine. My own creation, if you will. You insist on patterns, I will give you less subtle ones that will accent your lovely tan, and your hair, since you are un renard argenté.”

“Oh, please,” Mr. Lestrade groans. “Not that again.”

“As I told you.” Mr. Holmes nods. “And I agree with Henry about the patterns.”

“We can’t all be the king of bespoke, Mycroft,” Mr. Lestrade says. “And the buttons on my shirts don’t require a visit to the tailor if they come off.”

“Obviously.” Mr. Holmes taps his umbrella on the floor. “Please? A robin’s egg with a navy pinstripe would look stunning on you.”

“Light blue, dark stripe, right?” Mr. Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Fine. But don’t get carried away. A few shirts, and maybe a suit for press conferences. Nothing too fancy.”

I laugh. “So much like my Michel. He would not wear anything other than the jeans and a polo when I met him. Now he is the finest dresser in Sussex.”

“I am most certain he is, if he is wearing your clothing,” Mr. Holmes gives Mr. Lestrade a sideways glance. “We will be late for our next appointment, Henry. I appreciate your time today. Please make an appointment for Detective Inspector Lestrade at your earliest convenience.”

“My assistant will contact you, Mr. Lestrade,” I say with a victorious smile. I take the card he hands me, and nod. “Perhaps we can do shoes also…? Lucien can bring over a few pair that will do your feet better if you must chase criminals.”

“Mycroft…” Mr. Lestrade gives him a look that is both exasperated and pitiful. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

“Small steps, Henry.” Mr. Holmes’ tone is grave as he gestures toward the door. “Thank you for taking on the repair of my shirts. Your excellent skills and your…discretion are always appreciated.”

The way he says that gives me a slight chill because his eyes hold a warning. “I have been your tailor for many years, Mr. Holmes, and you know that I am a notorious gossip. However, I have never, and would never gossip about you. You have my word.”

Mr. Lestrade puts a hand on my arm. “It’s all right, Henry. We know you would never betray a trust.” He glares at Mr. Holmes. “Don’t we, Mycroft?”

Mr. Holmes tilts his head, eyebrows lifted. Mr. Lestrade lifts his eyebrows in return, and they stare at each other for a long minute. Mr. Holmes sighs slightly, and looks at me. “Ah… apologies, Henry. I am well aware that you are the soul of discretion, and always have been.”

“Thank you,” I say, holding back a sigh of relief. “Though I do apologize for thinking that you had committed a crime. I hope to see you soon, Detective Inspector.”

“Soon,” Mr. Lestrade says with a grimace. He takes hold of Mr. Holmes’ hand, and practically drags him to the door. “Thank you, Henry.”

The door closes and I can only shake my head. After all these years, Mr. Holmes has got himself a chap. A passionate fellow, too, if the damage to these shirts are any indication. Well, if anyone deserves passion, it’s Mr. Holmes.

***

A few minutes later, Mr. Holmes steps back inside. “I did neglect one thing, Henry.”

I brace myself for more chiding. “A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. I will not tell a soul that you have a... person of significance.”

“Admirable, but that is not what I came back for.” He gestures at my neck, and smiles slightly. “Your tape measure, if you can bear parting with it. The Detective Inspector has a bit of a… phobia, and I think it would be a good idea to let him grow accustomed to it before his appointment.”

I let out a breath in relief. “Yes, yes, of course.” I take the tape from my neck and hand it over. “If it will make it easier, then by all means.”

Mr. Holmes puts the tape around his own neck and smiles. “Thank you very much, Henry. Enjoy your afternoon.”

“And you as well, Mr. Holmes.”

“I most definitely shall.”

I watch him saunter out of the shop, surprised to hear him whistling.

With a shake of my head, I smile at that. Mycroft Holmes, sauntering and whistling. Never would have imagined that in a million years. That Detective Inspector is most definitely good for him to have made him so happy he’s whistling.

***


End file.
